


Say it with Enthusiasm

by fishpoets



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 10:14:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishpoets/pseuds/fishpoets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing gets Cas going quite like having Dean's consent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Say it with Enthusiasm

**Author's Note:**

> because nothing gets me going quite like spoken consent, either.
> 
> Happy valentines day guys ♥

Maybe it's an ex-angel thing, some residual string of celestial programming, but nothing seems to rev Cas's engines as much as Dean giving him _permission_.

 

In the mood, Cas can get thrillingly, pants-tighteningly efficient, stripping them both and manhandling and pushing Dean around and generally not putting up with any of Dean's bullshit. When it comes down to the actual _acts_ , however... Cas always pauses, just for a moment. He'll say in no uncertain terms exactly what it is he wants to do, and ask if he has Dean's consent.

 

It had thrown Dean off a little, at first. Cas's questions had started as tentative, unsure – the act of a person carefully defining boundaries, laying foundations on his inexperience. But once they grew settled together and Cas became more confident, once he knew how much Dean _wanted_ and how much Dean could _take_ , the asking didn't stop.

 

Sex became a steady stream of _I want, may I?_ , blissful and awed, slipping from Cas's mouth like psalms. Back and forth, ask and acquiesce – by now it fits seamlessly into the rhythm of their fucking, words pressed into Dean's skin, curled between his lips; whispers in his hair, his ear, growls against his neck, electric shivers running down his spine to pool at the small of his back.

 

It's never a guilty thing.

 

Never doubtful, or patronizing; never skirting condescension.

 

Never ashamed.

 

It's purely Cas's desire, brazen and embraced, and it ignites Dean in response – he wants to revel, to indulge, to give and give and _give_ , hot and blinding and messy and _glorious_.

 

Yes,

 

he replies, delighting in his friend's gasping shudders.

 

Yes, Cas, yes; anything you want, sweetheart, _yes_.

 

_Yes_ , always verbal, always, to set Cas alight – though he sings it not only with teeth and tongue and air from his lungs but with his eyes, his fingers: _Yes_ , with a captured gaze; _yes_ , his palms tracing prayers over the sails of Cas's shoulders; _yes_ , a benediction, in his smile against Cas's chest.

 

_Yes_ , on his back, on his knees; bitten into kiss-stained lips, laughed breathlessly at long fingers' drag and caress along the softness of his sides.

 

_Yes_ , with his arms tied, _yes_ with legs outstretched; on his belly, blindfolded, in the shower, in the car, in the quiet darkness of their bedroom in the small hours. He's murmured, cried, exalted; he brands his thirsting assent into Cas's salt-slicked skin with every breath – against his fingers, his feet, his flank; throat, back, collar, thighs and nipples and cock. He tongues his approval into the cup of Cas's hand, over his heart; he strokes and he thrusts, buried so deep inside they lose all sense of their outlines.

 

It is Ariadne's string in the maze. _Yes –_ one little word that once could have destroyed the world. Now it's small and safe, though no less earth-shattering – a tiny candle flame in the vast and absolute black that rises to a towering inferno, a burning coil of rope which guides them home.

 

They wrap themselves tight together, and push; tumble in tandem over the edge.

 

*  *  *

 

Cas used to say _thank you_ , after, all stunned and sincere, until he realized how it made Dean squirm in discomfort. Now he says it smug and self-satisfied, to make Dean laugh, and pinches him in soft, sensitive places.

 

Mostly, though, they're quiet. Eventually they'll stir and stretch, beckoned by the need to wash or to eat; else they'll fall gradually asleep, curled in a pair like quote marks.

 

Later there'll be sore limbs and tired grins, and possibly a traumatized brother to placate, but all of it is underlined with the unspoken promise of more.

 

Dean looks at his friend, dozing by his side, and smiles. How far they've come. They know where they stand, now. They've _told_ each other, spoken it aloud. After all, their bond has been there from the start, and their mutual permission to take advantage of it is always implied, but... well. It's still nice to hear.

 

He sneaks his arm around Cas's chest and tugs him closer. Burying his nose under Cas's jaw he breathes in the salt and musk of the past hour, and lets his eyes droop shut. Maybe one day, he thinks, he'll get round to asking some big questions.

 

Whatever happens, he knows that for the important things – the things that really matter – Cas's answer will always be yes.


End file.
